


Mind V Body

by susiephalange



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: !!!, Angst, Doctors & Physicians, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Jim is a Little Shit, Mental Health Issues, Mental Health is Just As Important As Physical Health, Minor Spock/Nyota Uhura, Protective Bones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 12:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: A recent transfer to the USS Enterprise poses a threat to Dr McCoy's position as leading physician and CMO. Said transfer has no want to take over his position, thank you very much, butyoutry telling that to a grumpy Bones.





	1. Not A Hostile Takeover

**Author's Note:**

> Been working on this for a while. I'll post a little by little, as I'm on a little holiday at the moment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new doctor on board, and someone (Dr Leonard Horatio McCoy) is Not Happy, Jan.

When Jim approached his good friend Bones, the doctor usually had something scornful or backwardly complimentary to share to the Captain of the USS Enterprise. Perhaps a reminder for the man to have a medical reason to just waltz in so often to the Medbay so often. But this time, when Jim came to Dr McCoy, this time it was with news.

News of an approved transfer for a new doctor. His friend was scathing.

“Dammit, Jim, _I’m_ the doctor!” He replied, face growing redder than their pal Scotty’s uniform. “The CMO of this darn ship, I don’t need anyone else to slow me down!”

The yellow-shirted man did not back down from this attack, no. Instead, he shook his head, at the other man’s rage, laughing. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to Dr McCoy looking like a disgruntled garden gnome whenever they argued, or _spoke_ for that matter. “Dr _________ _________ will come aboard the USS Enterprise at the next Starfleet colony, whether you like it or not, McCoy.”

If he had been anyone else, there would have been a _don’t forget who your superior officer is_ tacked onto the end, but there was no other threat but their grim friendship. Noticing this, McCoy shook his head, rolled his eyes, muttered, and took it in his stride. The Georgian native knew how to pick his battles, and this was a fight for another day. 

* * *

When you had put in to transfer, it was for no reason other than personal motives. A little selfish, yes, but still. You’d gone ahead with it, wishing for any ship, putting out your request to anyone who would take you. One ship had caught your eye, though; the Enterprise. While you had spent eight years aboard the USS Pritchard, you found yourself unable to make yourself a home there, with no true connection to the Pritchard and her crew.

When you had seen on your Datapad that the request had the word _affirmative_ beside it, you almost wondered if it had been a glitch in the system. But no, it was real. You were departing today at Starfleet-managed outpost of Sundfloveien, to be soon taken on by the Enterprise. It was nearly unheard of to be accepted during a crew’s five-year mission. But here you were, looking down once again at the Datapad, where the small tick was notated, _approved by Captain James Tiberius Kirk_.

“Many happy returns, Doctor,” an old co-worker soon to be forgotten congratulated you from the transporter pad, and before you could reply, you were beamed down to the Starfleet colony, to wait a day until you were to board the Enterprise.

You spent the day in a hostel room, considering yourself in the mirror above the sink, pacing figurative holes into the carpeted flooring. You were a good doctor, a fantastic crew member with plenty of experience in away-mission discoveries and extra-terrestrial medicine; you were more apprehensive than nervous. When the envoy came to fetch you to board the new ship, you felt a shiver traverse your spine, and a smile upon your lips as the transporter beam brought you onto the ship.

Once materialised, you met the gaze of the captain, having spoken previously on a holo-chat. If it weren’t for that, you would not have recognised a single person in the room. Captain Kirk crossed over the room to you, and instead of a handshake like you thought a man of his reputation would give, you were surrounded in a hug.

“Sir –!” You choked, and were soon released.

“Thank you for joining us, Dr _________!” He beams, eyes sparkling.

Behind him, a man of Vulcan appearance in a sciences blue shirt clears his throat. He must be Mr. Spock – a well-known figurehead for all his feats throughout Starfleet – as he informs you, albeit thirty seconds too late that, “Our Captain is a hugger.”

You nod, taking in the people near the transporter pad. You are dressed in plainclothes, having surrendered your uniform to the crew of the Pritchard, which contrasts vastly to the standard Starfleet colours. There is a man in red with thinning hair and a curly haired youth manning the transporter transmissions, the man you believe to be Mr. Spock, Captain Kirk…

“I was led to believe I would meet my CMO today,” you tell the Captain, after assessing all the people you are surrounded by, “Is Dr McCoy unwell?”

Captain Kirk shrugs a mustard-clad shoulder. “He’s…indisposed.”

You nod. _Indisposed_. Fancy wording to say, ‘not in the mood to greet a stranger’. “That is okay, I look forward to working with you all,” you tell the people around you, and spare them a smile. “I’ve been told wonderful things about the crew of the Enterprise.”

“And about the Enterprise herself too, eh?” The red-shirted man chuckles, his accent stark in the white-light of the interior of the ship. He goes to stand, and adds, “Montgomery Scott. Chief of Engineering.” He puts a hand out.

The youth puts his hand out before the engineer, his face alight with wonderment. He looks young, younger than what you remember protocol allowing officers to be to travel in deep space. Perhaps he’s one of the insanely smart ones. “Pavel Chekov, ma’am,” he greets, a charming smile accompanying his Russian lilted words, “It’s a pleasure –,”

Mr. Spock clears his throat, interrupting the curly-haired prodigy. “Dr _________ has matters to see to, Ensign,” he cuts in, and with a clipped gait, steers you from meeting these people, and perhaps, every other person on the ship. Without looking to you, he walks fast, turning corners quickly with a marching pace, “I will lead you to the medical bay where you will practice, and then, to the place where you will sleep.”

You nod, smiling to yourself. “Thank you, Mr. Spock.”

Not too long later, you were in a turbolift, and turning into a well-lit medical bay. Your eyes grazed over the walls within the open planned area; it seemed to be in a very smooth working order, with plenty of action and attention to the eight patients being visually treated by the nurses and staff within the bay who worked hard. You saw a dark head of hair staring at a printed report on a clipboard, and slowly turning, you saw the scowl placed on a perfectly good face. The scowl diverted its attention to your guide through the Enterprise, and deepened.

“Dr McCoy –,” Spock began.

“I ain’t got the time for you, I’ve got three people without beds and one with –,” he notices you, and sets his mouth into a deeper grimace. “Unless you’re here to say you’ve got another pair of hands to help this short-staffed mess, I’m going to put this conversation on hold.”

You cross your arms. “Dr McCoy, I’m Dr _________, and though not my speciality, I have spent time triage.” You look to the supply room, and ask, “Uniform or scrubs?”

He takes in your plainclothes, “Scrubs. And don’t get under my feet, Dr _________,” he moves off to the patients nearby, leaving you to spare a glance to Mr. Spock before suiting up in scrubs. By the time you’re all dressed, you go to Dr McCoy’s side, and start assisting with the patient in the gurney.

“I’ve got this –,”

You nod, and before he can tell you off for being of assistance, you move on to the red-shirted security personnel. She holds her hand to her shoulder, eyes downcast, her left foot tapping her leg enough to shake. You consider the readings from the medical tricorder, and after the assessment and a preparing a sling and cast for the broken collarbone and fractured wrist, pause.

“Run me through what happened,” you tell her, chewing on your lip.

She pauses, but her foot does not. “Engine room failure. I was security detail with seven others.” It’s factual, to the point. Hearing this, you point out the next patient to be seen to a passing nurse, and take a seat beside her. “Is something wrong?”

You shake your head. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to know what you saw. How you felt.” You take a moment, and add, “I’m the new doctor on board, Dr _________, and I specialise in a different kind of medicine.” You glance over to where Dr McCoy is hard at work, “From what I can tell, you’re the first person who was on the scene, yes?”

She nods.

You see a square of paper floating in a container above her head, a scrap from an old clipboard, and write your details upon it. “Witnessing trauma can lead to as much damage to the body as being physically hurt,” you tell her. “Here, contact me if you or any of these people here need a hand in transitioning from any disturbance.”

For the next hour, you hustle around, attending to people’s drips, using Hypospray after Hypospray until you’re left with the satisfying tiredness that follows a good day’s work. In the entranceway to Medbay, you see Mr. Spock, his eyes dutifully watching your interaction. But the appearance on his face, he seems to have seen the whole ordeal. You motion to your scrubs, and then to him. Without a word shared, he nods, and you go to change back into your plainclothes.

“So, what’s your deal, _________?” Leonard McCoy corners you as you exit the storeroom, straightening your shirt’s collar. He has a quantity of blood on his gloves, and a smear under his ear from perhaps where he’s unconsciously itched a scratch. “You just waltz into other people’s Medbays and make life harder every damn Tuesday?”

You shrug. “Just biannually, Dr McCoy.”

You glance over his shoulder, to where poor Mr. Spock is still standing. If you didn’t know any better, he’s been there for an hour without moving, which either means he has an empty schedule and a replacement on the Bridge, or he doesn’t know the meaning of _raincheck_. But you don’t care. You’ve clearly overstayed your welcome already in the Medbay, and it’s only your first day.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

You leave him there, and as soon as you reach Mr. Spock’s side, you feel a little puzzled as to why the man you’re to work alongside is such a cactus to one’s ass. Fortunately for you, there isn’t enough time to ask Mr. Spock about this, as you make good time to your personal quarters, where he leaves you with mealtime instructions and a Datapad for your personal and work use.

The next week is your first time in the Medbay once again. Starfleet have a good reason to transition workers into their roles for a period to keep their knowledge flexible and able to become applicable for any and or fleet where positioned. Your week is hell, learning from a straight-off-the-textbook teacher and a nurse who has seen better days. But here you are, wearing your blue shirt, reporting for duty at 0800, as stated on your records.

“So, it is a Tuesday thing,” he comments dryly without looking up from his desk.

You huff, holding in an eye-roll that could lead to them falling out from your face. “Only for your enjoyment, Dr McCoy.” You glance around at the quite empty Medbay, and add, “I see you’ve taken care of things already, I didn’t know you had the ability to perform well under that snark you’ve got. I know a good cure for it, though, if you want to consider it.”

Now it’s McCoy’s turn to roll his eyes, and that grimace is back. “You can stick it where the sun don’t shine, sweetheart. Now tell me why you’re here on the Enterprise, and what your plans are to oust me.”

“Oust?” You ask.

“Get rid of me,” Dr McCoy hums, hardly pleasant.

You stand your ground, your stance solid, arms crossed. “Unless you decided to overlook the brief you were given, you wouldn’t be so antagonistic toward my appearance here on board this ship, Dr – I am Dr _________, MD of psychiatry.” You narrow your eyes at him. “I asked for any transfer they could give me, and I’m here. Deal with it.” Your words are like fire spit from your mouth, and you add, “I wonder if I’m here because someone wants me to psychoanalyse you.”

McCoy’s eyes narrow. “Over my dead body.”

At this, there’s a rap on the doorway, and in walks Captain Kirk. He looks like the physical embodiment of sunshine, waltzing in even when there’s a thunderstorm brewing between the two resident blue shirts. There’s even a goofy smile on that face, and his bluer-than-blue eyes look like edible candy. Yeah, he was sunshine. And with McCoy acting like you were a rival at the county fair, you weren’t in the mood for sunshine.

“_________, a word?” He asks, and looks over your shoulder to McCoy. “Mind if I steal her away from you, Bones?” He has a look on his face that has _@# &! you, Kirk_ written all over it, and the Captain takes you away, ignoring the grump. “I’ve decided that you’re not going to operate from this Medbay…we’ve had one made up another sector from here made up to accommodate your type of medicine.”

You purse your lips. “Had you noticed the hostility in there?”

Captain Kirk laughs at that, walking with you into a turbolift that moves downwards. “Aw, Bones is a sweetheart. He’ll warm up to you soon.” You raise an eyebrow at that, but don’t say a word. If anyone was overhearing, they might think their Captain was speaking about a cat or something like that. A couple of paces from the turbolift, you reach a destination. “Here. All yours for the taking, Dr _________.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a lil idea that morphed into a Big Idea...hope you guys are enjoying!


	2. Prognosis, Diagnosis, Whatever It's Called

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks like someone needs a medical check up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found some more WiFi! Thus another chapter has come forth. Hallelujah!

Six months passes like time usually does on the Enterprise. Smoothly, well, often with a side dish of adventure. Your Medbay is ran by you, and a select number of nurses and staff who were in training already from other subdivisions on the ship (a point made to not be undermining the CMO), work through the psychological issues of most of the Enterprise. While Starfleet did have mandatory testing and clearance tests to allow officers of a sound mind to enter a five-year mission, a lot can happen in 1825 days, and it was your task to work through the kinks that were left undiagnosed and left to simmer under the surface.

In six months, your crew of eight in the dinky little Medbay had worked through most of the people on board who had suffered physical injury within the last eight to ten years, as well as other outliers which allowed for mental illnesses to arise. Soon, all the Enterprise’s staff were looked at, from redshirts to officers, Keenser to Mr. Spock himself. Which left…

“Dr _________, Dr McCoy is here.” An Aaamazzarite nurse alerted you, and glancing to the doorway, made his leave before the arrival of the other doctor.  A smart choice of him.

You turned, and saw the familiar face approaching you. From what looks could tell you, you suspected that he was having little sleep, lots of work, and many a stressful away mission with the good captain finding trouble as usual. But appearances were not your speciality of medicine; the cures you made were from beneath the surface, and often from the mind itself.

“Got told to come here,” he crossed his arms, standing his ground a meter away from you. He looks around, and that damn frown deepens. “Is this where half my patients have been going? You can’t take a hint, can you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I told you, I’m not a doctor like you. When people have sound mental health, they tend to not have so many workplace accidents, which leads them to your care.” You motion to the room off the side where you hold your sessions. “Follow me, please.”

“Is this where you take all your victims?” Dr McCoy asks, before following you in.

You roll your eyes, but since you’re turned away, your professional reputation hasn’t been tarnished. “Why, not all of them, Dr McCoy.” You close the small door behind you both, and add, “Take a seat. Now, before we begin…when was your last health examination?”

Seated in a white armchair facing your own, he shrugs. “Can’t remember.”

You nod at that. “That sounds correct…it was years ago, when the Nero fiasco happened.” You tell him. “Your reports have been signed off by a doctor who claims that you have sound mental health capacities…but I have to say, McCoy, it’s an unorthodox method for Starfleet officers to sign off on their own medical examinations.”

He doesn’t move. It’s like you’ve frozen him.

“Now, I won’t report you, because I’m not the disciplinary type, but I just need to catch up on over six years’ worth of trauma for you.”

“Six years?” He repeats, and whistles at the number. “Can’t be.”

“Seems so, doc.” You flick through the clipboard you’ve got, full of details given to your access. It has the words _father David McCoy_ , _divorced ex-wife_ , _daughter Joanna McCoy, graduated early_ –, “I see you’ve got two middle names, on file, but only one administered through the mainframe. Want to talk about that instead?” You’re met with silence, and you sigh. “Okay, then, Leonard Horatio Edward McCoy, what do you want to talk about? Your astraphobia, or the slight emetophobia you have? I cleared my evening, we’ve got all night to get through this.”

“You’re bluffing,” he makes a call, stony faced as usual.

You laugh at that, and place the clipboard upon your lap. “I sure do play a mean game of cards, Leonard, but I sure am hell not bluffing now. Come on. You’ll ruin my record of getting everyone to talk…” Your voice has an edge to it, a ferocity. “Dammit man, I’m a _doctor_ not a mind reader, this isn’t going to be any easier if you don’t speak.”

He nods, and wiping a hand over his face, looks to the clipboard. “What does it say on there about me?”

“You tell me.” you cross your legs, arms placed by your clipboard, pen at the ready to take notes.

“My name is Leonard Horatio McCoy. Edward was a clerical error on my permanent record.” He tells you. “I was born in Georgia in 2227. My fathers’ name is David McCoy. My mother’s name is –,”

You laugh at the facts he’s sprouting. It’s funny, like he’s trying to be Mr Spock instead of the sarcastic self you’ve known him to be. “You know what’s on the paper for sure, but stating facts won’t get things off your chest. You know, emotionally.” You trace your finger over the printed word of _divorce_ , and add, “Your daughter, Joanna? She’s in medical school these days, isn’t she?”

Leonard nods, a little smile forming at the mention of her name. “She’s just like me, but has so much of her mother in her…she’s gorgeous. I’d do anything for her.” He spills, eyes with a faraway look.

You take a little note on that. “What about her mother?”

He shakes his head, as if trying to make you know who’s in charge (in this suite, it’s you), but he gives in. “Jo’s mother…Jocelyn. I ain’t perfect, and neither are you –,” You raise an eyebrow at that, but he goes on, “We were idiots. In love. Too young.”

He goes on like this for another three hours, telling you things that you’re sure that nobody else has heard before. He’s a fan of old Earth country music, and plans his shore leave with the ability to meet up with his daughter. Prefers to be alone than in company with others, but even though because of this, he still has a considerable amount of time spent with Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Uhura, Commander Spock, and Lieutenant Commander Scott. He hates sudden change, and loves to drink to forget. The last bit he doesn’t so much as admit to you than omit, and from records you have access to, you know that Leonard McCoy accesses the alcohol supply at least once or twice a day.

It’s almost the end of the allotted time you have together when he smacks his tongue against his teeth, making a clicking noise. “So, doc,” he says, sarcasm and Southern twang and all, “You know what kind of screwed up I am?”

You blink at his wording. _Screwed up?_ As a mental health professional, you’re avid against using that kind of derogatory jargon that makes it seem like having an issue with brain chemistry in an individual is the be-all and end-all for a person. You take a quick breath – _in, out_ – and place your handwritten notes face down away from his prying eyes.

“I’ll need time.” Your smile wan, you rise, and open the door to the little office. “You’re free to go, Dr McCoy. I’ll alert you when my prognosis is obtainable.”

As soon as you shut the door behind him, you stare at the empty white seats you spent so long in.

 _Screwed up._ It hits you, after thinking those two words once again. Although you’re not as much a workplace threat anymore, today’s session probably brought on that fear of being taken over, overrun, redundant. Most people overlooked their mental health because they weren’t sure of the outcomes and reasons _to_ care for it. But you suspected something bigger in Dr McCoy…and you’d get there.


	3. One Thing Lead To Another Aaaand - Dot Dot Dot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're trying to be friendly. Yeah. That's what you do to prickly Doctors who don't want to be near you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know my Mama Mia musical reference in the chapter title, I'm sorry, Chiquita, but Does Your Mother Know what you're doing living with _not_ knowing ABBA songs?

You walked into his Medbay bright eyed and bushy tailed the next day. Though it was empty, he was still at that desk of his, filing paperwork and sending messages on his Datapad. He didn’t even look up at your approaching footsteps. Only when you placed a small bottle before him on the desk he looked at it, and then to you.

“Dr McCoy, your prescription.”

He took another look down at the bottle, and then to you before an answer came from those usually fast-talking lips of his. “I thought you needed time before my prognosis was obtainable?” He put the words from your mouth in his. They sounded so good coming from his mouth, and you wish that you weren’t noticing it now when you were supposably on duty and doing official things. It had taken six months for you to realise that you were into him. Stars. Couldn’t you be attracted to anyone else on this ship than a fellow _doctor_? Stars! He wasn’t just a doctor, he was your damn patient! “Dr _________? Enterprise, to _________, do you read me?” He asks dryly.

“Ha,” you laugh, only just realising you’d been spacing out, and taking a seat opposite the desk, push the bottle toward him. “It’s yours. Once a day, don’t miss a day.”

“Is this to make me annoyingly happy like you?” He grumbles, taking the bottle in his hands. He inspects the label, and raises a brow at the ingredient list on the side. “Depression?”

“It’s minor, but it’s still enough to treat,” you nod, and glancing around the Medbay, you disclose, in a smaller voice, “I had it too, a couple of years ago.”

“Depression,” he repeats.

“Nothing wrong with having the black dog following you around,” you lean forward, and pat him on the shoulder. “You’ve just got to know how to keep it on a leash.” Motioning to the clock, you both look at it as the hands prepare to tick over to the next hour. “It’s four fifty-nine. We both know our shift will end in one minute. Want to go out for drinks with me?”

Leonard looks at you funny. “First you tell me you’re not here to take my job. Second, you give me drugs. Now you want to party?” He asks, that sarcastic tone back again and better than ever.

 “If you put it that way…” You laugh, and add, “no, really, I mean it. Drinks. Just you, me, and the other eight hundred officers we have on board.”

“Ain’t you got anyone else to bother?” He asks.

“C’mon, man,” you moan, and look at the hands on the clock turn to five, and you add, “I’m relatively new, have a terrible schedule for socialisation with people other than medical personnel and _will_ buy the first round.”

“Count me in, sweetheart.”

* * *

When you manage to open your eyes, you see you’re in a terribly-lit room, and there’s something like an earthquake going on. But as your eyes open a little more, and your mind comes to a little more, you realise two things. You’re in someone’s quarters, and the only earthquake is the ringing in your ears and pounding in your head. It’s when you try to get out from where you’re trapped you realise you’re _with someone_ in their quarters, and your face heats up.

“Dimmers, ten percent,” your whisper comes out as a croak, and as the computerised lights obey your command, you see that you’re in your own quarters – thank the stars, that makes the situation somewhat bearable! – and there’s a man lying face down, arm splayed over your stomach. A faint snore comes occasionally from him and his dark mop of hair, and you feel that heat on your face increase. “Dimmers, twenty percent,” you whisper again.

You only recognise his face when there’s more light, and if it weren’t for his Bambi-like sleeping form splayed over your bed, you would have sworn like a sailor.

It’s Leonard McCoy.

You try to think back to _why_ you have Leonard McCoy in your bed, and why you can’t remember the night before. Well, it’s hard to, seeing as the whole thing happened behind apparently very thick beer goggles, but laying there with the sleeping Dr McCoy beside you, you piece things together.

_“Why do you hate me, Doctor?” You asked after perhaps a drink too many, but not few enough to stop. “As soon as I got confirmed, you’ve been after me like Tom and Jerry.”_

_He raised an eyebrow at that. “What can I say, I don’t play well with others?” He asks._

_You shake your head, and tip back another shot of something brewed in the Cassiopeia galaxy. “You play perfectly well with others. I’ve seen you boss around your staff and your friends. You just don’t like me.” You sniffle, having realised that some of your shot had gone down your face and nose from tipping your head back too far, and wipe it with your wrist. “I’m just asking.”_

_“Maybe I’m just afraid.” He tells his half-empty cup of whiskey. “I heard of your rep. You’ve got quite the reputation, Dr _________,” He sighs, and flags down the bartender. “And stop psychoanalysing people. You’re supposed to be drinking.”_

_You laughed at that. “I’ve done this since dolls and tea parties, Dr, what makes you think…oh my gosh, did you see that movie about the pig when you were little?”_

_“_ Babe _?” He asks._

 _You felt a blush cover your face. “I didn’t know we had pet names, darling,” you giggle back, leaning against the bar. He rolls his eyes at that, a little less drunk than you are, and trying to catch up, downs the rest of his whiskey. “No, not_ Babe _. The one with the spider, too.”_

_“Are you sure you’re not making this up?” He asks, incredulous. Even tipsy, the good doctor is a sarcastic asshole, and even when you’re not with it, you’re still into him. “Sounds like you’re making this up.”_

_“Some pig,” you whisper, and then, eyes wide, nearly screech, “Charlotte’s Web!”_

In the bed, you shift, trying to get out from his strong arm. It’s hard, especially because of all the fuss you made the previous night about a silly old Earth movie from the previous centuries. Why, of all memories, you can pluck that one out of the hidden things – it helps little with your situation. Gingerly, you move Leonard’s arm, but it’s heavy, and warm, and when you move it, you feel the strip of bare skin that’s without his arm is colder, and you shiver.

“Go back t’ sleep,” he mumbles, words bleary with sleep.

You clear your throat, moving so his face isn’t pressed into the side of your chest and stomach. “Leonard, wake up,” you hiss, and when that doesn’t work, you muster the strength, and use your usual voice reserved for time on duty in Medbay. “Psst. Dr McCoy,” you add, “Jim did something stupid, he’s ready for surgery.”

He wakes with a start, and blinking, works through the motions when he realises just how close to you he is, and just how little clothing the pair of you are wearing, and what memories he can find.

“You’re not Jim.” He states.

You nod. “That’s right. Can you be a little more psychic and tell me how we ended up here?” You ask, moving the blanket to protect his privacy, and you add, “Please don’t tell me we slept together.”

“I think we went to sleep beside one another,” He raises an eyebrow how his words come out, and adds, almost to confirm it for himself, “We didn’t have sex,” he admits, and rolling on his back, he adds, “But I’m pretty sure you told me that you loved me last night.”

“Oh my stars, I’m so sorry,” you whisper, placing your hands over your eyes, feel a wave of tears coming. “Dr McCoy, this is the worst –,”

He shakes his head, and nudges your shoulder. “You don’t remember it, do you?” He asks back, and at your silence, he tells you, “I told you that I loved you too.”

You’re silent for a moment. What has happened? Did you trip and fall into a mirror and wake up to find yourself in a different universe where everyone was different and or had facial hair? You glanced to see that his face was still cleanshaven, and with that theory dispelled, you cussed under your breath. What had led sarcastic, mostly-always grumpy Dr McCoy to like you?

_“You know, the reason that the common conception for sex to happen in the dark is because of the growing tide of insecurity in bodies in this century –,” you’re interrupted by a mouth on yours, and hands cradling your face. You’re not even sure why you’re telling him all about the psychological problems of misconceptions on human reproduction, but kissing is better, and with just a swipe of your passcode, you enter your quarters, taking Leonard in with you. “Forget about the implications of other people’s behaviour.” You whisper between kisses._

_He laugh at that. “I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he jokes._

_You laugh at his laughing of your previous statement, and going to one-up him, you pull off your Starfleet issue blue shirt, standing topless before him. “Well, I love you.”_

_Leonard blinks, and slowly, peels off his own shirt. Unlike yours, which smells just like the detergent everyone has, his has the grime and grit of the physical-injury Medbay on it, and glad it’s gone, you’re faced with a topless Leonard McCoy. “Good thing, since I love you too.”_

Your face goes red at the memory. “You weren’t lying, were you?” You ask, and add, “Because that’s a shitty way to get into a girl’s pants, Dr.”

“We didn’t have sex,” he repeats, He shakes his head. “Please, call me Leonard,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I’m such a hard-ass, and that I’m rude, and abrasive,” he begins, “That’s just how I am. I’m like it to everyone. Like you said in our session, I’m an asshole.”

You frown. “I didn’t call you an asshole.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.” He laughs. “_________, I fell for you when you waltzed into my damn Medbay and took over those patients like you hadn’t been on board for half a second. You’re confident, and unafraid of confrontation, and unrelenting. And I’m not lying, because I love you.”

Those tears from before started to fall. But they weren’t embarrassed tears anymore – this time, they seemed to be something happier, making your shoulder shudder in laughter, and turning into a small litany of laughs. “It took us long enough to work this out, didn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dancing in the background* gIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE A MAN AFTER MIDNIGHT 
> 
> okay I'm ABBA trash I'll leave now


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a snippet of what's going on currently in the 'Dish...

“I don’t think I can go another day with those two battling it out,” Lieutenant Uhura confided to Spock as they walked onto the Bridge, her fingers clasped over a cup of hot coffee for herself, and one for Ensign Chekov that she always brought the younger officer. “It’s hard enough hearing it from _________’s nurses to my friends, but when Dr McCoy rants? It’s unbearable!”

“I agree,” Spock intoned, and taking the cup of coffee that was not hers, walked it over to where Ensign Chekov was reading an Andorian newspaper. “Although, I saw footage of the pair of them drinking together.”

From his Captain’s chair, Jim waggles his eyebrows. “I’ll do you one up, Spock,” he grins. “How about I saw footage of Bones _and_ Dr _________ entering her quarters together?” he winks, and waves his Datapad to prove his point. “From what the systems show, they’re waking up now.”

“Young love,” Sulu shakes his head from where he’s warming up his pilot’s seat.

A message pops up on the Datapad the captain is holding, and with a quick glance, his smile is wiped off his face. With Spock and Nyota behind him, they read the words sent from everyone’s favourite CMO on the screen before he swipes it aside, their faces heating up with blushes.

“Vat vas zhat?” Chekov asks around his soy latte, confused. “Vat?”

 _I know why you accepted _________ on board._ The message read; _Next time you want me to get a girlfriend, don’t just accept every transfer to join us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end! Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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